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By: Ishita Khambete  To care is to have a flame in your heart. To be consumed in your intellect, your passion. To care is to carry the burden of yourself. To hold your mind in your hand, glimmering with hope. To care is to see everything with a new eye. To see like you’ve never seen before, To finally understand what it means to care.
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By: Niharika Palep  Lyra felt her heart leap in joy as she made it past the finish line, leaving everyone else behind in the dust. This was the moment she had been waiting for her whole life, every small race ,every hour she had spent training, every night she couldn’t sleep, it had all been leading up to this very moment. An Olympic Gold Medal. What could be better than that? Ever since she was a little girl, this had been her dream. A wave of nostalgia hit her as she recalled the moments she spent running around in her backyard, pretending she was running past the ribbon. While most of her friends stood in front of their mirrors practicing receiving Oscar awards or winning beauty pageants, little Lyra Matthews barely spent 2 seconds in front of her mirror before putting on her sports shoes and running off into the wind. Lyra felt like she was on top of the world as she was surrounded by the photographers and reporters, waiting to get an exclusive on the new world champion. But there’s one problem with being on top of the world, you never know when it's all going to come crashing down. Amidst all the excitement and media frenzy, Lyra failed to hear all the hushed whispers that were going around the stadium. All eyes were on her, but not for the reasons she thought. Suddenly, a loud announcement brought her back to reality, crushing all her hopes and dreams. She couldn’t believe what was happening. “Lyra Mathews has been disqualified under suspicion of drug and steroid usage. Further investigation pending.” As soon as the news broke through, the reporters started hounding Lyra with questions, like a pack of lions attacking their prey. “Ms Mathews, what do you have to say about these allegations?” “Is it true that you’ve struggled with drug abuse in the past?” “How long did you spend in rehab?” Lyra could feel the world spinning around her as she tried to dodge the stinging questions. It was too much to take in all at once. With the whole world looking at her, she collapsed to the ground in shock, leaving behind a commotion and uproar amongst the audience. For a few days after the race, Lyra stayed in her hotel room, cooped up inside, refusing to talk to anyone. Her family and friends tried to reason with her, but alas it made no difference. She wouldn’t even let them in the room. The only sign that she was alive was the constant room service that was being sent up to the room. Fries, chocolate cake, cheeseburgers, every unhealthy item on the menu had been consumed by her. What would have been a sin for her a few days ago had now become her coping mechanism. What was the point of starving herself and eating vegetables and drinking disgusting kale smoothies? Her career was over, and so was her life. Two days later, the sports authorities paid a visit to her hotel room, in hopes to ask questions about the investigation. They asked her a hundred questions about her past, why she’d failed to mention her arrest 8 years ago on her record, when was the last time she’d taken drugs or steroids, why was a well-known steroid found in her locker at the stadium. With each question getting increasingly accusing, Lyra started to lose hope in the investigation and herself. She answered their questions in a last attempt to save herself. But everything was already ruined. The entire world was against her, they’d already labelled her a cheater and junkie. Her social media was full of trolls and nasty comments. Every news channel, tabloid and newspaper featured her as their headline. Everyone was dying to know ‘The truth about Liar-a Mathews’.What did she have to live for? She had become a shell of the person she once was, with no one to turn to for support. On July 13th, exactly two weeks after the race, Lyra Mathews was found dead in the bathtub of her hotel room. The housekeeping service stumbled upon her dead body floating in a pool of her own blood, an half an hour before the Olympics authority released a statement proving her innocence. Written by: Ananya Garg  When I was a toddler I used to play with barbies and other such toys These toys they said were “meant for girls not boys” I used to go to the barbie shop and get excited All the clothes we got were pink and sparkly and I felt invited This continued till I was 12 years old. I didn’t just play with barbies but also G.I Joes In my paternal grandparent’s house My father and uncle played with video games and were crouse When I entered my tweens I started feeling insecure I thought my peers were cool and pink just wasn’t my colour So in order to “not be like other girls” I started to fall in love with blue and green and black As long as it wasn’t pink, I thought I was on the right track. I wish I could write a letter and deliver it to the past. I would tell little me that these stereotypes never last. Wearing a certain colour or having a certain theme deemed “not fit” by the society Doesn’t kill your vibe You should stay true to your tribe So today when I was pondering over My foolishness I wondered what exactly got inside my head All girls are so beautiful While I judged them just like a fool I claim to be a “feminist” But I didn’t have the slightest gist That I was in fact bad at this job Feminism isn’t a choice It’s a law I can’t believe Misogyny It was so ingrained in my brain I believed But now, I understand this game And I pray That other girls don’t fall prey I hope they understand, being a woman Isn’t something bad. ~A.G// how I always wanted to be a boy By: Ishita Khambete  9:00 pm: She grabbed a glass of pink lemonade and stuck a lemon slice on the rim of the glass. As she walked outside, she picked up a cigarette from the counter, stuck it in her mouth, and lit it. She stepped outside and sat down with her friends. “Celie, hon, didn’t you say you were going to quit smoking?” Abra asked, raising her eyebrows when Cecilia made eye contact with her. “Well, I never said I was definitely going to quit. I just said that I might.” Cecilia, taking a drag from her cigarette. Another voice chimed in and said, “Babe, you need to step up your game. Quit already. It ain’t that hard. If my stubborn, traditionally smoking grandfather can do it, then so can you.” “Lucia, babe, c’mon, y’know that I’ve been smoking my whole life. Can’t stop now babe. Afterall, I’ve been smoking long enough to get lung cancer and die. What’s the point in stopping?” “To not die maybe? That’d be a pretty good reason,” Abra said, her eyes trained on her phone. “Also did y’all hear about the party Maya is hosting at the local country club?” “Hmm yeah, I heard. Isn’t Darrow invited?” Cecilia asked. “Robert Darrow? Hell yeah he’s coming. He got himself a girlfriend too. She’s hot. I’d date her if I could.” Abra said, slight laughter escaping her mouth as she spoke. The other people in the circle laughed along with Abra and quickly fell silent, the light from their phones brightening their faces, providing an unholy contrast to the darkness of the night. AuthorHi! My name is Ishita, and I live in upstate New York. I am passionate about women's rights/empowerment, which led me to co-found an initiative called Women's Strength, whose goals are to empower women and recognize them for their achievements as the media doesn't often do that, if at all. I am planning to go into pharmacy in college, and ideally with a double or combined major in biology and chemistry. My hobbies include reading, writing, and watching YouTube, and I love listening to BTS, Queen, and Troye Sivan. Editor's Note- Trigger Warning: Please stop reading if you are sensitive to violence, and/or self-inflicted harm. Written by: Amanda Sherman  Fire Lights up the building in front of me Trees burst into intoxicatingly fluorescent flames Wow! All of these years of hiding my emotions Stitching them up Suppressing their influence Oppressed by the snickers of golden haired boys My chest became constricted with the tears that were never spilled Filling up my lungs Drowning me in the helplessness of my own lack of power Memories flood my reminiscence A forceful shove to the floor My adrenaline spiking A crude remark “Don’t you speak another language?” “Aren’t you so smart?” Slaps to my face and the faces of my ancestors I envision blood on my assaulters’ faces Pummeling their sorry asses into the ground Returning an eye for an eye The ache of being the only one who walks through the shadow of the Valley of Death The sting of lying about the pain tucked away to the ones who treasure me like a starlet The shredding of smooth skin where the blade glides against the rippling cut The crimson leaking out of the vicious wound where suffering condenses into the ethers It all Explodes! The glorious release of a brilliant turquoise inferno! Written by: Amanda Sherman  “don’t you want to be remembered?” whispers the sly, elegant voice into my ear “don’t you want to shock them into submission?” the patronizing wisp of an innuendo ripples down my spine at first he was easy to ignore i was purity i was grace i was honesty but then things changed fast where i was unfailingly kind i now became violently vicious victorious in battles of the mind menacingly manipulative as he taught me to be soon i saw blood not my own but belonging to those who are the person i used to be i guess at some point i broke floodwaters of demonic desire rupturing past this facade of holy peace i guess i was always stained devastatingly dirty like a soiled rag of shit frowned upon by those naive angels who never witnessed the sadistic savagery i’m so intimate with By: Christopher Turner  The Sambo Doll that Was killed. …And that’s without the generational Poverty, the war on drugs, the Prison industrial complex, the Military industrial Complex, the Constant drugs testing from Tuskegee all the way up to Henrietta Lacks, the Welfare trap, Everything was messed up. And the end? We gave you food, We gave you art Creativity-- We gave you Tupac, Kenny, Biggie, and- Cole…We gave you that fatty southern foodstuffs that everyone loves and gave You scholars and artists. We gave Everything we could, Made universities and put clinics in our own neighborhoods. Then, we get shot at, to be attacked while on a walk To have officers on our necks To have our culture be mocked and stolen To have surveillance used against us Seriously, Forget America.
By: Hannah Flores  As I sweep the floors of this house This body You sweep things under the rugs Leaving the pages of our stories to fade into dust Turning our skins into doormats You let all the houseplants wilt Depriving this house of the extra oxygen that it needs You've cleaned out the bookshelves and the pantry Covered all of the furniture Because you didn't want me to know how to know How to cook How to live and not just survive You did not want me to have heirlooms You emptied this house So it wouldn't feel like a home My home So it wouldn't feel inviting anymore Cleansing this house To the point where it seems That it was always vacant Written by: Ahsen Bhatti  We live in strange times when the power Is in the hands of people who want to devour Everything we stand for, and force us to cower In the face of their might, as they tower Above us. Where we live, people like Floyd Die every day as we scream into the void That healthcare’s a right, that the very existence Of a trillionaire, such as Bezos, for instance When starvation and poverty riddles the globe, When millions of people live without a home, Is immoral. While we shout into the echo chamber About Amy Cooper, and how we shamed her The president says to put a bullet in the chamber And start shooting. It’s sad that we’re rooting For those doing the looting, as our elected king Rages and threatens to release vicious dogs On protestors, i want to take something that fogs Up the brain, we’re nothing but insignificant cogs In their machine, in which, while he jogs, You can gun down a man, RIP Ahmaud Arbery It’s too much for me, too much to see, So much to be, but I think we can all agree… Written and filmed by: Hannah Flores This poem is dedicated to the people of the world I know a place That's always moving Where there's something in the air that makes sleep useless If The World Was A Movie You would see so many people walk by And never stop to notice As if they are just extras But what if I told you That they are the movie We are the movie If the world was a stop motion film Each picture would be a moment frozen in time Yet still moving forward Like bad internet service Claustrophobia ensues as we quarantine ourselves with our own fear Thursday March 12, 2020 was the first day that I felt trapped in my own hand washing Turning the Happy Birthday song into a timer Dehydrating my sense of hope and my skin all at the same time While some of us are basking in our privilege Of stockpiling things Not out of need, but our own fear If the world was a movie It would expose how those who bought wipes to resell and made $100,000 off of innocent, scared people And how those who bought enough food to feed a village Still look down on those fleeing war and famine with no Walmart to turn to And it would tell them that any phobia is a toxin in itself Or maybe it's a silent film In a world where you see colour but everything feels black and white With 5 million children out of school right now you'd think it would be louder Where I realize that by the time this poem is finished, all of my stats will be outdated And there are so many voices screaming at you from all directions Saying everything and nothing that you want to hear To the point where your native tongue sounds like a foreign language To the point where you drown out this flood until it turns to white noise Then nothing at all What if the film was a black screen All the lights, cameras and actions are out Sun extinguished and stars left to wander Smothered by a red sea of businesses dropping like flies Where we’re all left in the dark But this grey area Sets a backdrop for colour A home for sun-spilled faces If the world was a movie I’d kaleidoscope the technicolor stories that we hold behind our eyes How we build bridges, write books and try not to hold grudges The heart of a cosmopolitan among the cosmos We are nothing short of stars Each mind a new kit of lenses to take different angles on the same avenues The key is our delicate balance of thinking independently together Threads of streets woven into grand tapestries If the world was a film It would have no beginning, middle or end It would just play on Imagine all of this Translated by the cry of time moving through us But COVID-19 would only last for one frame If I made a movie about the world I would tell you not to socially distance ourselves from each other's humanity A documentary of diversity Where divided nations Form a unifying pulse An involuntary muscle with conscious intent Of not cancelling hope Not cancelling love Not cancelling life Employing the trillions of cells in our bodies to keep moving Cinema can be the most beautiful fraud in the entire world But what if I told you that this is real What if I made a movie about the world My beloved home Where the extras avoiding cracks in the sidewalks Become the stars Beacons of light in falls of Broadway darkness Where we are the movie |
Photo used under Creative Commons from S@ndrine Néel
